


Go to Hell, Delilah

by LesMisgayrables



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hair Donation, M/M, self-indulgence tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesMisgayrables/pseuds/LesMisgayrables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan decides to donate a few inches of hair. Enjolras doesn't believe in this, but Grantaire manages to convince him of the value. He then goes and makes rash decisions that make Grantaire metaphorically fall to his knees and cry out to the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go to Hell, Delilah

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to chop off all my hair yesterday and we took the ponytail to the clinic today, so I was playing around with the concept in my head and had to write this. How very self-indulgent of me.
> 
> For this story, Enjolras's hair needs to go down to his stomach. I imagine he always pulls it up in a bun, braid or ponytail. About this long: http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/de/26/9a/de269adc968f8f6df3ab8219b1a4da0f.jpg (except much blond-er!)

“I’m planning on donating my hair,” said Jehan thoughtfully. Grantaire put his coffee down and looked at xem with something akin to wonder in his face.

“You’re an angel,” said he. “You have got to tell the others.”

“Why? They don’t have to know,” shrugged Jehan. “I’ll tell them when they see me with short hair.”

“How much will you donate? The ten-inches minimum?”

“Just a bit more. Eleven.”

“I have the biggest platonic love for you.”

“What’s going on?” Courfeyrac called loudly from the other side of the room, gaining everyone’s attention. “R looks like he’s in love with Jehan.”

“That’s because I am,” said Grantaire without looking away from Jehan. “Xe’s an angel.”

“What did xe do?”

“I’m donating Eleven inches of hair to Locks of Love,” xe grinned. Everyone stared in shock.

“But… but your hair!”

“Please don’t, Jehan, your hair is magical!”

“You are the bravest man I ever knew, Severus – except your hair is much, much nicer.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean donating hair?”

“What do you mean, what do you mean donating hair?” frowned Éponine from her place next to Bahorel. “You didn’t know you could donate your hair?”

“No?” said Enjolras.

“Ah, so that’s why you haven’t donated it yet!”

“I don’t understand why and whom it helps,” he blinked. Jehan preened and explained:

“There are lots of organizations and institutions that you can donate your hair to. They make wigs for people who have lost their hair to a medical condition,” he said with a smile. “I’m donating mine to Locks of Love, which benefits children, mostly.”

“But why does it help the recipients?” Enjolras tilted his head. “It’s just hair.”

“It’s… it makes them feel better,” said Combeferre. “They liked their hair. They want to have it back.”

“Yeah, to feel better about themselves,” smiled Courfeyrac before looking at Jehan. “That’s awesome of you. I’d do it, but…”

“Yeah, ten inches, and all,” giggled Jehan. Enjolras frowned.

“But that just supports the fact that you need hair to look normal,” he said. Grantaire, Éponine, Bossuet, Courfeyrac and Jehan groaned. He glared at them. “It’s true! It stands for society’s construct of—”

“Rapunzel, dear, you really don’t know what it’s like to not have beautiful hair,” said Éponine. “It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘society’s construct of what beauty is’, the fact is that getting these wigs makes them feel like they’re not sick, maybe, or who knows!”

“Little girls like having hair. They like styling it, looking like their favorite characters,” said Musichetta from behind the bar. “It’s easier for boys to lose their hair, maybe, but to a little girl, her hair is what makes her a girl.”

“That is—”

“We know what you think of that, too, Apollo,” sighed Grantaire and ran his hands through his face. “But that’s the way things are, and they like it.”

“Don’t be an absolutist, man,” said Courfeyrac. Combeferre struggled before speaking.

“What Jehan’s doing is very noble, Enjolras. It’s entirely altruist, too,” he said. Enjolras looked at him. “It really does make a difference to these people.”

“It’s true,” said Joly with a soft smile. “I see bald kids in my office quite often. I mean, I’m just a pediatrician, but I don’t have to know why these kids lost their hair to know that they feel sad about it, and yes, _especially_ little girls.”

Enjolras looked between pissed off and thoughtful for a moment. “So you just donate your hair to make people feel like they’re people again,” he said pointedly.

“To make them feel better about themselves and their whole situation,” snapped Grantaire. “Dammit, Enjolras, if I got sick and lost my hair – which I would do _very_ unwillingly – I would look into the mirror and _every time_ it would remind me of what I lost, what is happening to me, what’s changed, and everything else that is not how it was before.

Losing their hair is evidence that their life is not-quite perfect. Maybe if they have hair, they don’t have to think that every time they look into a mirror or they touch their heads. Maybe they just miss styling it. Maybe they look weird bald – _who cares?_ It must feel like a miracle to know that people were humane enough to chop their own hair off, willingly, just for them to feel happier. It’s not utilitarian at all, it’s just humane. You and your Kantian ways just wouldn’t understand that.” He flipped his hand in dismissal and took a long gulp of his coffee. Everyone turned to Enjolras.

“What he said,” said Combeferre. Enjolras looked at him and then back at Grantaire.

“I’ve never seen you speak like that,” he said after a pause. Grantaire looked at him over his cup. “You’ve never, well…”

“What? Felt sympathy?” he asked dryly.

“No, no,” Enjolras leaned forwards, “stand up for something you believe in. Not just argue against something, but actually show some… belief.”

“Yeah, well, I just have a lot of feelings about hairless people.”

“Aw, man, I love you, too,” said Bossuet. Grantaire smiled. Enjolras looked down. Everyone was just waiting for his verdict, which they knew _would_ come.

“I see,” he said, finally. Everyone blinked in surprise. “I see.”

“What?” asked Grantaire in disbelief.

“You’re right,” he said somewhat reluctantly.

“Well, that’s a first,” said he after a while, but pleasantly, not rubbing in his victory. “I’m glad you understand.”

Enjolras smiled at him for a second before turning to Jehan. “So you’re donating your hair.”

Jehan grinned. “Yeah. Eleven inches is more than the minimum, and I have enough hair left to do a Keira Knightley bob.”

“Oh, that’ll look gorgeous on you, babe,” said Musichetta, walking to xem from behind the counter and cupping xyr face, picturing it. Everyone started chattering and talking to Jehan excitedly. Combeferre patted Enjolras’s back and walked to Jehan, too.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, and the man smiled back at him widely. _That’s another first_ , he thought, before looking at his friend again.

 

 

Jehan and Grantaire walked hand in hand into the Musain a week later, both with very wide smiles. Everyone stood up as soon as they saw them.

“Jehan… _Jehan_.”

“You look gorgeous.”

“Your haaair!”

“Oh, shit, you done it, mate.”

“Looking good!”

“Have you donated it yet?”

“Okay, let us through, let us through,” Grantaire pushed them away and walked them to their seats. “‘Ponine’s not coming today; told me to tell you hi. Hi.”

“Hi, ‘Ponine,” said Joly looking at the ceiling with a grin.

“Jehan, it must be said,” Bahorel spoke excitedly, “you look _awesome_ with short hair.”

“It’s not even short, Bahorel, it’s a bob.”

“It’s short for you! I’ve never – I don’t think anyone here’s even seen you with short hair?”

“I have,” said Grantaire. “So has ‘Ponine.”

“You don’t count, R.”

“What a surprise.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “That’s very nice of you, Jehan.”

Jehan beamed at him. “Thank you, Enjolras.”

“I love you, man,” Grantaire told Jehan with a dazed smile, and ruffled xyr hair.

“Don’t fucking do that, you inconsiderate dipshit!” Jehan grumbled and pushed his hand away, straightening xyr hair, but smiled after a moment. “Thanks, R.”

 

 

Enjolras strode in fifteen minutes late, already fretting. “I’m sorry I’m late, sorry, sorry, I was j—”

“ _What have you done?_ ”

Enjolras looked up to see everyone gaping at him; some in surprise, some in amazement, and Grantaire in horror. I’ve-Just-Witnessed-a-Bloody-Genocide horror.

“I, um, I c—”

“ _What have you done?_ ” he saw Grantaire repeat as he stood up and strode to him quickly. Enjolras tried to take a step back but Grantaire took his face in his hands and stopped him. “Why? _Why?_ No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…”

Enjolras saw him freak out uncomfortably closely. “Can you let go of me, please?”

“No, no, no, no, Enjolras, _why?_ ” he asked in as much horror as was clear in his face. Grantaire let go of his face, but before Enjolras could step away, he felt the hands touch his short hair delicately. “No, no, my love, no.”

“My love?”

“My golden locks, my strands of light—”

“ _Your? Light?_ Wha—Grantaire—”

“Why did you fucking—Apollo…” Grantaire made a whimpering sound and hugged Enjolras close, stroking the back of his hair. The rest of the group looked at them in full silence. Enjolras pleaded for help with his eyes, but his friends just looked on.

Grantaire hugged him tighter, making Enjolras grunt. “Gr… R?” he said slowly, “it’s just hair.”

“Just ha—just hair? _Just_ ha—Enjolras, your hair was my _life_.” Grantaire pulled away from him and looked at his hair in horror again, fingering with the slightly longer strands on hair on the very top. “You… chopped off your hair.”

“Yes?”

“All of it. It’s gone. Your hair is gone. You look hot as fuck but your hair is _gone_ ,” he said dramatically and mournfully.

“Um,” Enjolras blushed.

“Spun gold – I’m – how much did you lose?”

“Spun gold? What are you talking about?”

“Your hair, Enjolras. Phoebus, Aegletes, Musagetes, fucking Rapunzel, _your hair_ ,” said Grantaire with conviction and started circling around a bemused Enjolras, touching, prodding and feeling his close-cut from every angle. Neither of them heard their friends’ snorts and huffs of laughter. “Wherefore dost thou commit such atrocity?”

“Well, I thought ab—”

“What treacherous barber should agree to such depravity?” he said, fingers gripping on the pitifully small hairs on the back of his head. “How much? How much hair was it?”

“Twenty to twenty-one inches?”

“Fuck me sideways, _no_ ,” he exclaimed, much to everyone’s amusement and despair. “Twenty-one inches of tangible sunlight taken away from this cold, bleak world.”

“Calm down, Mother Gothel,” said Éponine amusedly, but she was also looking at Enjolras’s head mournfully.

Grantaire ignored her. “What Delilah was there? Who is responsible for this? Delilah, why, Delilah, taking what’s not meant to be taken—”

“Okay, Grantaire, stop,” Enjolras turned around and put his hands on Grantaire’s tense shoulders. The man didn’t know whether to look at his eyes or at his chopped hair. “I donated twenty-one inches of hair to Locks of Love, okay?”

“Donated…” said Grantaire with wide eyes. He staggered back. “Oh, no. Oh, god, no. I am responsible for this. I am Delilah. I indirectly chopped your hair off. I’m Delilah. What have I done, sweet Jesus, what have I done?!”

“You didn’t do anything, Grantaire.”

“If I hadn’t convinced you that donating hair is a good thing, you wouldn’t have done this. Fuck, the one time you admit defeat and it’s only to kill me later. Fuck, your hair.”

“R, it’s _just hair_. Stop it. It will grow back. Nothing special about it,” said Enjolras, starting to smile amusedly. “Combeferre’s with me on this. Everyone’s with me on this,” he looked at the others expectantly. Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac, and the man looked at someone else in turn. Nobody actually agreed with Enjolras.

“I mean,” said Jehan, “it does grow back, but… um…” he motioned at Enjolras with xyr hand. “Yours was… iconic?”

“Iconic? Nobody agrees?”

“I’ve killed it.”

“Shut up, Grantaire,” he laughed. “This is very, very bizarre.”

“You think?”

“I thought about the whole hair donation thing,” explained Enjolras, “and I looked it up. It was very nice, actually. So I donated it. I’m actually… really glad that you told me about it. Thanks. It feels good,” he smiled. Grantaire looked at him (and his head) for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry I assaulted your head,” he said slowly. Enjolras grinned.

“No problem.”

“And I’m finding it really hard to restrain myself right now. I want to hug you. And touch your hair, but mostly hug you,” he said, heading to his seat. “That was nice of you. Donating it. Um. You look nice.”

“Yeah, you look hot, Enj, well done,” said Courfeyrac. “Like, properly hot.”

“Yeah. It’s growing on me,” nodded Éponine.

“It could be worse, I guess,” shrugged Grantaire, looking down at his coffee and vigorously stirring. Enjolras blushed and sat down, reaching to put his ponytail behind the back of the chair, but starting when he realized it wasn’t there.

“Still getting used to it, ey?” said Feuilly. Grantaire looked up and saw Enjolras nod with a smile. He grinned at him.

“Wait ‘til you take the first shower. You’ll freak out.”

Enjolras blinked at him. “You’ve done it?”

“Yeah, just once. A few years ago – I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I can’t pretend nothing is wrong.”

Enjolras sighed. “Stop, Grantaire.”

“Can I touch it again?”

“As I was saying,” said Enjolras pointedly, ignoring Grantaire, “sorry for being late. I was cutting my hair—”

“Do you still have the chopped off braid?”

“Grantaire, stop,” said Enjolras, but struggled to continue. “Okay, there’s not a braid. There are a lot of little ponytails? They said it would make the strands larger.”

“Yes, that is true, may I see it?”

“ _Fucking hell_.”

“Please?”

“After the meeting. And that’s it. Okay, enough.”

“Okay. I’ll take you for a smoothie after and you’re paying.”

“Thanks. Now – okay, what?” he blinked and turned to Grantaire again. The amis hid their grins.

“I don’t know, you look much more approachable when your hair doesn’t look out of a painting from the renaissance in the Romantic period depicting a deity. So I’m asking you out before you start talking again and I remember that you are not any less intimidating just because you have less hair. Like Samson.”

Enjolras stared. “Oh. Okay,” he said dazedly and turned to Combeferre to talk about something or the other. The amis started talking, most of them sympathizing with Grantaire, but he wasn’t really listening, much more preoccupied with realizing that he had actually asked Enjolras out, and that he had actually accepted.

It may be just because of the hair, though. Maybe the hair was Enjolras’s common sense.

**Author's Note:**

> Locks of Love is a real organization in the US and Canada. You can find it here: http://www.locksoflove.org/  
> I urge you all to donate your hair if you can! It feels wonderful to do it, and it feels wonderful going short!  
> By the way, this was not even proof-read. I just wrote it all and didn't look back. Please tell me if I got any of Jehan's pronouns wrong, since it's the first time I write them, or anything else I misspelled or did wrong!  
> Thank you for reading:)
> 
> Oh, by the way, one of Grantaire's lines is stolen from Welcome to Night Vale. The "what barber...?" one.
> 
> Phoebus (radiant), Aegletes (light of the sun) and Musagetes (muse and leader) are other names for Apollo.


End file.
